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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27096931">Beside Remains</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/viv_is_spooky/pseuds/viv_is_spooky'>viv_is_spooky</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Down to the Root [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BPD Tim, Beholding!Oliver, Breaking News: Local End Avatar has Zero Social Skills, But she's trying, Character Study, Characters and relationships will be added as we go, Coroner!Tim, End!Tim, Gen, Hello and welcome to my obligatory tma “how do we stop the Unknowing” au fic, HoH Tim, Live Statements, Ria-typical dramatics, Technician!Oliver, Trying to Stop the Unknowing, Web!Rosie, more spooky dreams, not explicitly stated but I do write him that way, specifically</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-09 03:59:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,490</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27096931</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/viv_is_spooky/pseuds/viv_is_spooky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Unknowing looms heavy on the Institute’s horizon. The End still needs a Coroner.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Annabelle Cane &amp; Gerard Keay, Annabelle Cane &amp; Original Character(s), Annabelle Cane &amp; Ria Mirti, Basira Hussain &amp; Martin Blackwood, Basira Hussain &amp; Melanie King, Basira Hussain &amp; Tim Stoker, Gerard Keay &amp; Ria Mirti, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood &amp; Melanie King, Martin Blackwood &amp; Tim Stoker, Melanie King &amp; Tim Stoker, Oliver Banks &amp; Annabelle Cane, Oliver Banks &amp; Ria Mirti, Oliver Banks &amp; Tim Stoker, Oliver Banks/Gerard Keay, Past Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Tim Stoker &amp; Ria Mirti</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Down to the Root [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1792387</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>72</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Café Conversations About Death</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“You’re going to die soon. Figured you should know.” </p><p>“I die all the time.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Song Recommendations: “Tired as Fuck” by The Staves and “Damn These Vampires” by The Mountain Goats</p><p>(<em>”Oh, I'm tired as fuck/Oh, I'm tired and stuck/.../Never had a prayer to swallow/I’ll be coming home tomorrow/.../Oh, I'm tired as fuck/Nothing no one ever can do to bring me back up”</em>)</p><p>(<em>“Sleep like dead men/Wake up like dead men/And when the sun comes/Try not to hate the light/Someday we’ll try to walk upright”</em>)</p><p> </p><p>  <strong>cw: canon-typical S3 Tim’s headspace</strong></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"><span class="s1">The Casualty doesn’t bother to wring out the seawater in her hair when she boards the bus in Southampton. Dies stepping off, walks along Bassett Avenue past cars and tree before stepping into a roundabout. Goes through motions, the cycle of life and death. </span> <em> <span class="s2">Over and over and over</span> </em> <span class="s1"> - stopping once to shower and compose herself, just outside of London.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She’s still dripping wet when she walks into the lobby of the Magnus Institute, and doesn’t bother trying to dry off. Two cops brush by her without a second glance, grumbling to themselves about “false alarms” and “section 31,” and past them is the Widow. She smiles cordially, eyes crinkling at the corners in disconcerting satisfaction. “Ria. I was wondering when you’d arrive.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ria wants to scream, to drop her composure and give the Web a taste of death, but she’s still unsteady on her feet, disoriented by dry land after months at the bottom of the ocean - loathe to let anyone see her stumble -, and before she can get any closer there are footsteps pounding down the stairs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A man with thick, dark brown hair storms into the lobby, tired eyes burning with the same helpless rage Ria feels within herself. A few circular scars pepper the left side of his face, trail down his arm - marks, Ria suspects, of something which tried to burrow inside of him and winded up dead in the aftermath of its struggle.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His shoulders slump, resigned, when he sees her. “You’re going to die soon,” he says, voice sonorous and full but tinged with a bitter melancholy. “Figured you should know.” He turns to head out the door, then, but Ria catches his wrist.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I die all the time.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">The man lets out a low, ironic chuckle, pulling easily out of her grip. He speaks with slight incredulity, like he doesn’t quite believe the words that just came out of her mouth. “You </span> <em> <span class="s2">die</span> </em> <span class="s1"> all the time?” There’s no curiosity there, no fear, just...weariness. Frustration.</span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“...Yes. How do </span> <em> <span class="s2">you</span> </em> <span class="s1"> know I’m going to, though?”</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I see it.” His lips twitch upwards in a wry smile, and he looks down with a sigh. “Now that it’s too late, I see it all.” He glances back up at her with a hardened face, then turns abruptly over his shoulder to walk away from the Institute.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ria looks between Rosie and the retreating form of the person she suspects to be the new Coroner. She decides to follow the latter (carefully pushes aside the taunting voice that asks if it’s really her <em>choice</em> at all).</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His strides are long and purposeful - she has to run to catch up, but catch up she does.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When he notices her walking by his side - almost jogging, really, to try to keep pace -, he startles at first, then sighs and steps to the side of the path. “What do you want?” He runs a hand through his hair roughly, then crosses his arms over his chest.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you know what’s happening to you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I didn’t used to see how people were going to die. Now, I do.” He shrugs, a sharp movement that doesn’t quite align with the relatively easy way he seems to move. “It doesn’t matter. Seeing it in memories doesn’t change anything.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ria has no idea what he’s talking about. Sounds painful, though. She acknowledges as much; pain is...something she’s become accustomed to, recently. His response is a snort, a shake of his head, biting down on his lip so hard it starts to bleed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ria’s at a loss for how to comfort him; it’s never been her strength, making others feel at ease. Maybe introductions will help? “I’m Ria,” she says, extending a hand towards him. “I can tell you more about what’s going on, and why.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His eyes flicker up in disbelief, narrow with suspicion, and droop with fatigue in the space of a second. “I don’t trust you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not asking you to.” Ria doesn’t withdraw her hand.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Fine. Guess there’s no </span> <em> <span class="s2">harm</span> </em> <span class="s1"> in knowing all the ways I’m doomed.” He barks out a harsh laugh, then reaches to complete the handshake. Tight grip. His skin’s still warm, but...inevitability is there, just behind his eyes.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m Tim,” he mutters, turning to walk further from the Institute once more. “You don’t get to know anything else about me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This time, he seems to keep his pace just slow enough for Ria to be comfortable.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tim looks warily across the table at the undead, probably-evil person he’s agreed to have lunch with. She‘s small in stature, ashen-faced, with eyes that look like they’d have a keenness behind them if they weren’t so deeply tired.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">He really shouldn’t have slowed down for her. Shouldn’t be here. He </span> <em> <span class="s2">wouldn’t</span> </em> <span class="s1"> be here, but there’d been something in her expression when she’d told him she didn’t expect him to trust her...the resignation of the slight downturn of her mouth, the grim certainty in the set of her jaw, the way the hollowness in her eyes seemed to match what he sees in himself in moments where nothingness consumes him.</span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">The café is pretty quiet, at least. That’s the </span> <span class="s2">only</span> <span class="s1"> fucking silver lining of this day so far.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She breaks the silence first. “So, do you want to know what’s going on?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tim can’t help himself from letting out a huff of air. All the answers in one day; all too little, too late. Yeah. Would be nice to know that for a change.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She smirks, letting out a peal of bitter laughter. “I know what you mean.” Then, gathering herself again with an adjustment of her ponytail, she sobers. “You’ve been chosen for a role. By the End.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Hang on, ‘the End’? As in </span> <em> <span class="s2">Smirke’s 14</span> </em> <span class="s1"> ‘the End’?”</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The very same.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So they’re real, then.” Tim wonders if he should be surprised by this. Probably. It’s not as if he has any shock left to spare though, not after the shitshow that was this morning.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah. The Institute’s run by the Eye.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Sounds about right.” Tim props one hand up on his chin, searching Ria’s face for signs of deception. He finds none. Distantly, he wonders if she’s too worn out to lie - the heavy bags under her eyes <em>would</em> seem</span> <span class="s1"> to indicate that as a possibility. “So...why the End? Why not the evil eyeball that already controls my life? Or what</span> <span class="s2">ever</span> <span class="s1">’s in charge of the thing that killed and impersonated my best friend for a year without me noticing?”</span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“I’m sorry,” Ria says. At least, that’s what Tim </span> <em> <span class="s2">thinks</span> </em> <span class="s1"> she says. It’s more of a mumble than anything, the syllables garbled even through the filter of his hearing aids. Her face is inscrutable, now, aside from that ever-present, deep exhaustion.</span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Don’t be. Nothing to be done, really. I don’t think anybody could’ve stopped it, even if I-“ He cuts himself off before he can finish the sentence. </span> <em> <span class="s2">I shouldn’t have left her alone</span></em><span class="s1"><em>.</em> No need to overshare to strangers - that’s always been one of his worse habits.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s why it’s the End that chose you. You see this all as inevitable.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Isn’t it, though?”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Ria takes a deep breath, crossing and uncrossing her arms before she settles on leaning them against the table. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. Not everyone sees that way, though.” When Tim doesn’t respond, aside from a nod, she seems to take that as a cue to keep going. “You know I’m going to die. Can you see </span> <em> <span class="s2">how</span> </em> <span class="s1"> I’m going to die?”</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think so, yeah. There’s-“ he glances at her throat, the dark, pulsing vein curled tightly around it. The aspect of her appearance he’s been trying his hardest to ignore. “There’s a vein around your neck. That’s the only insight I have.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Coroner,” she blurts out. A </span> <span class="s2">complete</span> <span class="s1"> nonsequitor. Tim wouldn’t believe his ears if it hadn’t been the clearest word she’s said so far in their conversation.</span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“<em>W</em></span><em><span class="s2">hat</span> </em> <span class="s1">?” He can’t mask the incredulity in his voice.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s your role.” Ria shrugs, completely unfazed. “Those of us who are bound to the 14, we have these roles. You’re probably at least familiar with the archivist, right?”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><em> <span class="s2">‘The’ archivist</span><span class="s1">. </span> <span class="s2">Huh</span></em><span class="s1"><em>.</em> “Yeah, that’s my spooky boss. Well, one of them anyway.” </span> <em> <span class="s2">The one who used to be my friend, </span> </em> <span class="s1">he doesn’t add</span><span class="s2">. <em>The one who </em></span> <span class="s1">didn’t</span> <em> <span class="s2"> kill someone. The one who thought </span> </em> <span class="s1">I</span> <em> <span class="s2"> did.</span> </em></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s an Eye role.” Ria’s voice snaps Tim out of his train of thought. Probably for the best; it wasn’t going anywhere good.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Makes sense.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Coroner’s an End role.” Ria shifts in her seat again. Drums the fingers of her left hand once, twice against the table. “You see how people are going to die.” She frowns with what appears to be thought rather than dismay now, eyes flickering down at her hands.<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">From the way her voice dips into mumbling, faster-paced with harder-to-make-out syllables, he’s guessing the conversation has turned to a topic that makes her uncomfortable. Something about the person who held the role of Coroner before him taking a different path - aligning with a different entity, it sounds like? And something about a statement...he just manages to pick out the name ‘Antonio Blake,’ feels a spark of recognition at the sound of the name.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’d worked with that statement early on in his archive days, hadn’t he? Well, looks like it’s time to unearth it again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ria gets up to grab a napkin from a neighboring table, jots something down, and hands it to him. A phone number. “Reach out if you want, after you’ve read it. You’ll probably have more questions. But I have to go die now.” Then, with a wan smile and a halfhearted wave, she’s walking out the door of the café and into the street.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tim sits back in the booth, staring with a numbed shock at the coffee in front of him. Still untouched. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to bring himself to drink it.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Daylight Hauntings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Composure is hard to keep when your world is unraveling.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Song Recommendation: "The Sailor Song" by Autoheart</p><p>(<em>"I was your sailor, your demon, your lover, your overbearing/Best friend hoping for some attention/I saw through your automatic heartache, and now I know/That love is as love was, it's downhill from here.../Should I run a million miles away from every memory of you?"</em>)</p><p> </p><p>  <strong>cw: Ria-typical death and SLIGHT body horror relating to fatal injuries, mentions of blood</strong></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s been a week since Elias admitted to murdering Gertrude and Leitner. A week since every conviction about Jon that Tim had held fast to had been thrown into question with the confession, with Jon scared and scarred beside him – in the same boat. In a sinking ship, and an <em>evil </em>sinking ship nonetheless. He hasn’t recorded a statement since then, has barely spent any time in the Institute other than what’s necessary to keep his head from feeling like it’s about to split open.</p><p>It feels like a lifetime and a millisecond ago, the emotions of the moment dulled in recollections but the realizations made still sharp, cutting the edges of his mind. He’s read Antonio Blake’s statement at least ten times over, combing through it line by line – then word by word – to try to piece together what he himself is becoming. Why he doesn’t dream, why he <em>never </em>dreamed, of the veins in a hellscape London.</p><p>He can’t decide if them appearing in his memories instead is a mercy or more of a curse, if his lack of haunted sleep is worth the price of unbidden past images bringing ghosts into his mind during the daylight. For the best either way, he supposes. He’s tired enough, body and mind and soul all in a spiral of continually drained energy, without the added strain of sleep deprivation.</p><p>Ria’s number has been sitting in the chest pocket of his red flannel shirt since she left the café. He’s thought about using it, even typed the first few digits into his phone once or twice, but something always stops him from actually sending her a message. Maybe it’s the worry that she won’t have any more answers than he does, or the fear that her inhumanity might mean she’s as dangerous as Elias underneath the layers of exhaustion he’d seen piled upon her. Or maybe it’s the desire to avoid what he’s supposedly – no, definitely – turning into, for as long as possible.</p><p>He has a sinking feeling in his gut that nothing he could do would stop this descent into monstrosity, the weight of inevitability heavy on his heart. He doesn’t need another reminder of that.</p><p>Tim has been avoiding talking to anyone, really. Either because he doesn’t have the energy, or because he knows he’ll lash out. Composure is hard to keep when your world is unraveling, especially if you’ve never had the greatest hold on emotional regulation in the first place.</p><hr/><p>The door to Jon’s office is closed, and it’d be easy to walk away. Easy, but a betrayal of the promise he’d made to himself. A failure to challenge the misjudgment he suspects lurks in his mind as a result of broken trust, a hurt so deep that something in his brain warped and twisted his opinions on another human being so they’d become a monster in his eyes. Jon isn’t a monster, though, not yet. He’s just a person who fucked up, and he may not deserve forgiveness, but he doesn’t deserve to be alone right now.</p><p>Walking away would be a betrayal of the promise Tim had made to himself to try to start to rebuild a bridge that had burned in part because of supernatural paranoia. It would be a betrayal of one of the first people he’d allowed himself to grow close to after…after <em>Covent Garden</em>.</p><p>(If he doesn’t think his brother’s name, it won’t hurt as much. Or that’s what he tries to convince himself of, at least. He’s not sure if it’s true, but he can’t afford to let go of precautions against more possible pain. Especially in a place like the Archives.)</p><p>Jon had given Tim a challenge, sparked his drive to gain the trust of closed-off people whose kindness shone through the cracks in their brittle armor. He’d been a project, then a friend, then an undefined constant whose unexpectedly soft lips and habit of leaning against Tim’s shoulder as he frowned at marked-up copies of statements had made long nights at work bearable. Then, he’d been the reason work became <em>unbearable</em>, paranoia like daggers to the heart as his distant eyes watched with vehement suspicion that chilled Tim’s bones until the freezing burned – thawed into raw, blistering anger.</p><p>He had looked so small, though, in Elias’ office – weary and shaking ever-so-slightly, thin almost to the point of starvation in spite of the commanding nature of his voice, eyes brimming with fear he tried to mask with false bravado. Problem was, Tim knew false bravado all too well. He’d used that lie too many times not to see through it in others. And now? Now, in spite of himself, he’s fucking <em>worried</em>. The worry’s intertwined itself with the currents of his anger, of course. But it’s still <em>there</em>, buzzing just under the surface.</p><p>Giving in to rage’s riptides would serve to do nothing but hurt; if years of talking through failed relationships in therapy had taught him anything, it was that. So, with a deep breath, he raises one clenched fist and knocks once, twice on the polished wood in front of him.</p><p>“Come in,” Jon says uncertainly, raising the end of “in” up so that it almost sounds like a question. As if he’s wondering who the hell would want to talk to him. Well, at least he’s <em>aware</em> he’s been being an ass, then.</p><p>Tim opens the door and walks inside with a deep breath, flexing his fingers to try to consciously loosen them from their reflexively defensive curling.</p><p>The conversation is civil, at first. Jon is careful, fragile, with a soft voice and a gaze filled with guilt. Then, he brings out a tape recorder and goes to hit “record,” a suddenly inhuman light flashing in his eyes. Tim’s careful plan dissolves, bursts the dam of all the anger he’s been trying to work through. He turns to storm away before he starts screaming from the overwhelming flood as it all builds up, stinging behind his eyes.</p><p>There really was no hope for the conversation, though, was there? The Archives isn’t somewhere that allows healing; it’s somewhere that deepens preexisting cuts and creates new wounds in tandem.</p><p>As he silently wonders why he even tried, bitter smile playing across his lips while he walks the long way home, someone tumbles down a flight of stairs in front of him and lands at his feet with a sickening <em>crack</em>.</p><p>Tim gives an involuntary shout and leaps back, wonders if he should get his phone out to dial 999, and then recognizes the dark, curling veins around the person’s split-open skull. “Great. Lovely. Just <em>wonderful.</em>” He should’ve expected this, he guesses. At least it’s not the first time he’s seen a dead body.</p><p>“<em>Tim</em>?” the corpse asks in seeming disbelief, springing to their feet from where they lay facedown on the concrete. Oh. Ria. Her features may be obscured by blood, but he’d recognize that voice anywhere – if the spontaneous resurrection wasn’t already (<em>ha</em>) a dead giveaway. Before he can respond, she shouts, “FUCKING <em>SPIDERS</em>!” at the top of her lungs, drawing quite a few eyes that quickly turn from judgmental to horrified as they notice her gaping head wound.</p><p>Well, until it stitches itself shut.</p><p>Tim suspects there’ll be quite a few statements at the Institute tomorrow about this incident.</p><p>With a sigh, he throws his flannel around Ria’s still-bloodied shoulders and takes her arm to pull her away from the crowd. When they’ve walked a fair distance and the pedestrians passing by have thinned out, he asks, “The hell was <em>that</em> about?”</p><p>“I was going to try to give you time, let you reach out when you <em>wanted</em> to.” Is she <em>pouting</em>? She sounds like she’s pouting. He glances over at her – yep, <em>definitely</em> pouting. She kicks a stray pebble into the street with the toe of one platform combat boot, letting out a dramatic groan. “But nooo, the Web just HAD to lead me to you earlier. I should’ve known better than to follow all the cues it gave me…I just thought…” she trails off. “Doesn’t matter. I think it would’ve tricked me into finding you any way I tried to spin it. I’m not the Mother of Puppets, just one of her strings.”</p><p>“I thought you were End.”</p><p>“I’m tied to both. Not sure which one dominates, sometimes.”</p><p>“Ah.”</p><p>They keep walking in a not uncomfortable silence until they reach Tim’s house. Ria’s features scrunch with confusion when Tim invites her in to clean herself up, because apparently walking around London covered in blood is <em>normal</em> for her. She accepts the offer eventually, though not without a raised eyebrow and a muttered, “I thought you didn’t trust me” that Tim can barely make out.</p><p>“If we’re talking about trust,” – he’s <em>pretty</em> sure that’s what they’re talking about – “this doesn’t mean I trust you. It means I don’t want you feeding the Eye by inspiring any more <em>statements</em> than you probably already have.”</p><p>Ria snorts at that. “Fair enough. The End’s already had its fill from me today.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Sunsets</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“I suck at this.” </p><p>“At what?” </p><p>“Being friends.”</p><p>"Well, that makes two of us."</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Song Recommendation: “Round Here” by Counting Crows</p><p>(<em>”In between the moon and you/The angels get a better view/Of the crumbling difference between wrong and right/…/I can’t see nothing, nothing, round here/Won’t you catch me if I’m falling?/Won’t you catch me if I’m falling?/Won’t you catch me, ‘cause I’m falling down on you/See, I’m under the gun round here”</em>)</p><p>
  <strong>Cw: Ria-typical descriptions of death</strong>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tim can’t help himself from barking out a laugh when Ria emerges from the bathroom absolutely drowning in one of his sweatshirts.</p><p>“Oh shut <em>up</em>,” she groans, shoulders slumping with exaggerated exasperation. Turning pointedly on her heel, she grabs her skull lighter and cigarettes from the kitchen table in a flourish before stalking out the front door to go smoke on the porch.</p><p>When he goes outside to check on her about half an hour later, the sun is sinking below the horizon, casting everything in shades of fiery orange and pink. Ria’s eyes watch the scene without squinting as she takes a drag. She addresses Tim without turning to face him. “So you like sunsets too, huh?”</p><p>“Guess so, yeah.” He hadn’t thought of it that way before, but he has always liked sunsets. There’s a sort of finality to them, the promise of a day’s closure. The promise that tomorrow could be better. Lately, simply the promise of a brief respite before tomorrow got inevitably worse.</p><p>In any case, it’s soothing. An end to the light tangible in the curve of the sun as it falls out of sight, bathing everything in its glow with the most force and color just before it slips away. He crouches down to sit next to Ria, reaching back to prop himself up with his forearms as he lets his legs swing over the edge of the porch. Kicking absently against the piece of wall below where they’re both perched, he adds, “Sunsets show the beauty in endings. The kind I have trouble seeing.”</p><p>“I don’t blame you.” Ria brings the cigarette down from her lips, putting it out with a twist of the lit end against the concrete next to her. “Death’s not such a pretty end, most of the time. Mine wasn’t.” Her laugh lands somewhere between bitter and genuine. “None of mine have been. It’s kind of the point.”</p><p>“Point of what?”</p><p>“My role. ‘Casualty.’” She flips her ponytail over her shoulder with practiced theatricality, and he raises an eyebrow at her. Her mouth turns up at the corners as she shoots a sideways glance at him, and then she faces forwards again, eyes unfocusing ever-so-slightly. “You know, for everything my parents were afraid of, the way I died was painfully ordinary. Not pretty, but <em>ordinary</em>.” She draws her knees up into her chest, resting her chin on them. Still not-quite-looking straight out at the street. “Car accident, hit and run, the usual. A body left on the pavement, nothing to be done once the ambulance came.”</p><p>Huh. And here <em>Tim</em> had been worried about oversharing. What the hell do you say to that?</p><p>He used to be better at this.</p><p>He used to be better at a lot of things.</p><p>Before he can criticize himself any more, Ria’s voice starts up again, and now it is clear – alarmingly bright, too, given what she’s saying. The words flow from her mouth like honey, or silk. A sound so clearly <em>meant</em> to be calming that it sets him on edge. “I knew I was dying, was dead, and then I felt the fear of the people who’d seen me die – who still stood, some of them, gaping at my corpse like the clueless protagonists in a horror movie. I felt it gathering around me, asking to be invited in, and…and I made the choice to let it in. Haven’t looked back since. Or I hadn’t, at least. Then I got crushed by falling satellite debris and plummeted to the bottom of the ocean.</p><p>An abyss like that really gives you perspective, you know? Before the ship sinks, you die, and you die, and you cycle through, because if it’s going to happen anyway then you’re going to be in control of the where and when. Except you’re not. After the ship sinks, you realize you’ve never had the power you built up in your own head, the <em>choice</em> to follow the Web as it directed your undeath.</p><p>You sit at the bottom of the ocean floor tangled in severed marionette strings and wonder why you ever thought letting yourself be puppeted was a form of agency. You seethe until you’re empty. You learn things, things like ‘bleeding into the sea stings more than bleeding out on the street’ and ‘giving up control isn’t as simple as telling yourself you’ve surrendered.’”</p><p>At a loss for words, and unable to even fully process what she’s talking about with so much context missing, Tim reaches out and pats her on the shoulder. “You always been good at dramatic monologues?”</p><p>
  <em>Brilliant, Stoker. Way to console the person who just told their entire death story to you.</em>
</p><p>Ria turns her head to one side, cheek resting on her knees, to look at him, and there is something like surprise in her eyes – painstakingly hidden, fleeting, but present nonetheless. “I used to plan them. Now…they just sort of slip out.”  Her smile is somewhere between wry and sad – lopsided, a bit – her features a far cry from the hard-edged, composed picture they’d been during her recounting. After a moment, she unfolds, stretching her arms out behind her with a sigh before leaping to her feet. “Sorry about that. Been awhile since I could talk about myself – my story – to anyone who’d actually listen.”</p><p>“I know the feeling,” Tim mutters, more to himself than to her. The words give her pause, though, and she turns to extend a hand to him. He takes it, lets her help him up.</p><p>“You can tell me,” she says as they walk back inside.</p><p>Thing is, he knows he <em>can’t</em>. He doesn’t want to fuck up the first connection he’s made in months by latching on to this developing friendship like an emotional beartrap, much as his brain screams at him to hold on for dear life because here is someone who <em>gets it</em>.</p><p>A kindred spirit can still be a flight risk.</p>
<hr/><p>Ria didn’t mean to tell her story. At least not like that. She’s not even sure how much of it was <em>her</em> story and how much was the Web twisting her past to its own purposes. When she reaches out to offer Tim a confidante, she can barely stop herself from deflating with relief when he declines, because she’s not sure how much of that offer came from her own desires and how much came from the strands of spiderwebs coiled through her veins.</p><p>Inevitability rules fate, and she is its puppet.</p><p>She wishes she could still find that comforting.</p>
<hr/><p>It takes all of two weeks for Tim to tell Ria the details of what happened to Danny and Sasha. Their names feel shaky coming out of his mouth, like the pain of their deaths still grates against his voicebox, and honestly? That wouldn’t be out of the question, considering the End is supposedly his primary fear boss now.</p><p>Probably just normal grief, though, aside from the fun new addition of spooky death veins to his memories.</p><p>When he gets to talking about that part of the experiences he’s had since being claimed by the End, he can’t quite make it through the word “spooky” without his voice cracking. <em>Damn</em>.</p><p>A freezing hand falls on his arm, immediately pulling back when he startles at the touch. Right. Ria had said her default body temperature was <em>cold</em> now. “Sorry,” she mumbles from her spot next to him on the couch. “I forget sometimes; you’re not dead yet.”</p><p>Tim chokes on a laugh that turns into a cut-off sob, burying his head in his hands to hide the sting of tears in his eyes because <em>what the fuck happened to not letting himself being vulnerable here</em>? He winces as a few strands of hair catch in his hearing aids in the process, and barely stops himself from letting out a groan of frustration as he untangles them.</p><p>This time, there’s no hand on his arm, just a tap on his shoulder, and he glances up to see Ria’s features twisted with discomfort.</p><p>“Sorry, I…” Tim trails off, as uncertain about what to say as he’d been when Ria had talked about what haunted <em>her</em>.</p><p>“Not you. I suck at this.” There’s something in her voice that could be a chuckle if it didn’t bite so hard.</p><p>“At what?” Tim rubs idly, pointlessly at his eyes. He knows the tears will spring back up the second he thinks too long about Sasha or Danny again <em>– fuck, yep, coming back already</em> –, but temporarily brushing away the inevitable flood provides the same sort of comfort as seeing a sunset.</p><p>“Being friends.”</p><p>“Well, that makes two of us.”</p><p>Another tap on his arm. He looks up and Ria has moved a little closer, mouth twisted to one side like she’s trying to solve some complicated math problem in her head. “Do you…need a hug?”</p><p>Tim nods, just once.</p><p>Ria is all cold, sharp angles as she folds her arms tentatively around his shoulders – it’s nothing like Martin’s hugs, warm and enveloping, but enough like Jon’s to make something in Tim’s heart twist. Enough to stir up a jumbled flurry of barely-buried emotions from the shallow grave of the recent past, and he has to force himself past it in order to appreciate Ria’s gesture in the present. Detached as she seems to be from her own emotions, she’s <em>trying</em> to deal with his.</p><p>He pulls back after a minute, giving her space. Giving them both space, really, because he knows he shouldn’t maintain that sort of closeness with someone when they barely know each other. It never ends well.</p><p>Ria leans back against the cushions behind her, and they both sit in silence awhile as Tim composes himself.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Library Conversations About Work</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The next time one of Tim’s headaches brings him to the Institute, he decides to find a corner of the library to hide in until the pain goes away. </p><p> </p><p>  <strong>cw: s3 typical headspace for Tim (not QUITE suicidal ideation, but it edges close to that at one point during his conversation with Basira), mentions of blood, Ria-typical flippancy about death</strong></p><p> </p><p>Song Recommendation: “Liza Forever Minnelli” by The Mountain Goats</p><p>(<em>”There's the part you've braced yourself against and/Then there's the other part/Steal up inclining northward streets with some weird sickness in the dark/.../Never get away, never get away/I am never ever gonna get away from this place”</em>)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The next time one of Tim’s headaches brings him to the Institute, he decides to find a corner of the library to hide in until the pain goes away. It’s pretty much as far from the Archives as he can get, and he’s running too low on energy to spend whatever time he’s trapped here trying to convince former coworkers in Research to quit before they can get dragged down into the hellish state he’s found himself in.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’d sting too much today to see distrust distort their features, to know how few would actually listen to him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He can’t find it in himself to be surprised when Basira sits down across from him, books in her arms and questions in her eyes. With a nod of acknowledgment and absolutely no intention of engaging in conversation, he rises from the table to leave.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her reaching out to lay a hand on his arm shouldn’t stop him in his tracks, but it does, because he feels the slight tremor in her movement down to his bones (and when he turns to face her, a quick glance at her face reveals hints of desperation beneath the carefully crafted stoicism of her expression).</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">With a deflating sigh, he turns reluctantly to rest one hand on the table. “What is it? What do you want?” The rubberband-snap sharp in his voice makes Basira wince almost imperceptibly, and the hollow space in his heart where he knows regret </span><em><span class="s2">should</span></em> <span class="s1">be aches with the numbing pain of nothingness.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She schools her features back into neutrality with a practiced ease that sends a blinding flash of jealousy into the void like a signal flare. He clenches his jaw against the overwhelming rush, holds his breath until the feeling passes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It feels like years. Probably only seconds, in reality, given the lack of change in Basira’s expression when his eyes clear up again. “I have questions. About the Institute, about...our jobs.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tim shifts to sit back down across from her. “Go ahead. Ask away.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Basira’s brow furrows as she gathers her thoughts, lips pursing slightly, before she seems to settle on a question to ask. “Am I really trapped here unless...unless we kill Elias?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The now-grim line of her mouth suggests she already knows the answer to that question. Her searching gaze makes it clear that she still wants to hear it from someone other than herself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“All of us, not just you. Jon, Martin, Melanie, and I are just as trapped. Staying away from the Institute too long makes you sick - terrible headaches, sudden exhaustion, fever, the works. And yes.” He rattles off the words as quickly as he can, trying not to let any phrase drag him too deep into feeling its weight.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We’d die if we killed him, though?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The best way to respond to that is a shrug. It doesn’t seem to satisfy her, judging by the sharpness in her jaw as it clenches, so Tim tries to put the shrug into words. “Don’t know. He’s lied about a lot, but I don’t feel like risking it.” With that, a bitter, involuntary laugh escapes from his mouth. When it naturally turns to a tired sigh, he leans both elbows on the table in front of him, tipping his head forward to rake both hands through his unruly hair. He needs a break from eye contact. “If it were just me, that’d be different, but...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I get it.” Basira’s nod is solemn.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No. No, you don’t.” Tim doesn’t need to be solemn for his point to hit home. Basira starts a bit and then stands up, adjusting her hijab slightly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right.” She stands in silence, then, like she’s forgotten what to say next. Tim understands. What’s the point in saying ‘goodbye’ to someone you’re supernaturally bound to? Even a long absence, in their case, can’t be a goodbye. Eventually, she settles on, “I’m going to check out a book. Thanks.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s no chance to say “you’re welcome” before she’s walking away, purpose clear in every step.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’d be nice, Tim thinks, to have a clear path. A road he could follow to the end of the line without stopping.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The tunnels are as dark and foreboding as ever when he returns to them to leave, thankfully managing to avoid the rest of the Archives staff. He misses being able to throw his soul into something. Longing cuts deep into him, twists like a blade in his stomach.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">A blade that is metaphorically wrenched </span> <span class="s2"><em>violently</em> </span> <span class="s1">out of him when Ria pops out from behind a corner with a bloody smile.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tim lets out a string of curses that echo loudly through the tunnels, intermingling with Ria’s laughter.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Have you been down here this </span> <span class="s2">whole</span> <span class="s1"> time?” He starts walking again, not bothering to slow down for her to keep pace.</span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">She keeps pace anyway, of course, moving faster than anyone with a fatal injury should be able to. “Not the </span><em><span class="s2">whole</span></em> <span class="s1">time. I had to leave to go get a snack.”</span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Right. A </span> <em> <span class="s2">snack</span></em><span class="s1">. How is it that the person Tim talks to the most these days, whose company he can actually </span> <span class="s2"><em>stand</em></span> <span class="s1">sometimes, is an undead jump-scare enthusiast battery-powered by people’s fear of death?</span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Maybe it’s because death, at least, is natural in a way being chained to some big unknowable surveillance camera decidedly </span><span class="s2"><em>isn’t</em>.</span><span class="s1"> “That <em>would</em></span> explain<span class="s1"> the blood.”</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t worry,” she quips, “It’s all mine.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tim chooses to ignore that comment. “This is the last time you convince me to let you come to work with me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’d rather be alone here?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tim pauses for a moment, taking in the atmosphere of the tunnels. The walls that seem to be closing in, the shadowy ghosts of worms he sees out of the corners of his eyes, the visual echoes of distorted, bony hands that occasionally flash across his vision, the fear of another corpse discovery just around an upcoming corner... “No. No, I guess not.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ria claps her hands excitedly. Tim thinks maybe he liked her better when she reflected him, when she was just as tired and fed up with the world as he was.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He brushes the thought aside. She seems happier now, less hopeless even when she talks about dying, and maybe that’s what he needs - light in the dark hellscape that is his world now. There’s no room to be picky about its source.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">More than that, he sees the tension still present in her face whenever she mentions the Web. And he knows all too well what an upbeat facade can mask.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Interlude | Introductions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>MAG 100, but make it Beside Remains</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Song Recommendation: “Everything is Awful” by The Decemberists</p><p> </p><p>  <strong>cw: mentions of blood, Ria-typical death</strong></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS ON]</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">RIA: The Archivist isn’t here today, so I guess you’re stuck with me. Ready to spill your guts to the tape recorder?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">LYNNE: Yeah.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">RIA: Okay, great! (mumbling to herself) Now how’s it supposed to start again?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">LYNNE (who apparently has sensitive ears): You...don’t know how to start off the recording?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">(AWKWARD SILENCE, INTERRUPTED ONLY BY RIA DRUMMING HER NAILS ON THE DESK IN FRONT OF HER)</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">LYNNE: ...Do you even work here?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">RIA: I’m helping out a friend.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">LYNNE: That doesn’t really ans-</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">RIA: There! Remembered it!</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">(RIA DRAMATICALLY CLEARS HER THROAT)</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">RIA: Statement of Lynne Hammond, 2nd May 2017, regarding encounters with the dead.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">LYNNE: I only saw </span> <span class="s2">one</span> <span class="s1"> ghost.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">RIA: Did you see it multiple times?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">LYNNE: Yes?</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">RIA (with a slightly smug, triumphant note): <em>‘</em></span> <em> <span class="s2">Encounters</span> </em> <span class="s1"><em>,’</em> then. Plural.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">LYNNE: Are you just going to correct me on my grammar? That’s not what I came here for.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">RIA: Let’s get back to what you </span> <em> <span class="s2">did</span> </em> <span class="s1"> come here for, then.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">LYNNE: I saw a ghost.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">RIA: Right. You said that. (mumbling again) The Eyeball’s gonna need more information than that to get its meal, though.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">LYNNE: ...</span> <em> <span class="s2">What</span> <span class="s1">?</span> </em></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">RIA: I said we’re going to need more information, for...</span> <em> <span class="s2">investigational</span> </em> <span class="s1"> purposes.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">LYNNE: I don’t need you to investigate. Ghost is gone. I moved.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">(RIA GIVES AN EXASPERATED GROAN)</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">RIA: What’re you </span> <em> <span class="s2">here</span> </em> <span class="s1"> for, then?</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">LYNNE: My friend told me this is where I should go to tell my story.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">RIA: That wasn’t a story; it was a sentence.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">LYNNE: I </span> <span class="s2">told</span> <span class="s1"> you what happened.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">RIA: If you’re going to keep talking in circles, you may as well leave and stop wasting my time.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">LYNNE: Aren’t you going to...you know...pay me?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">(RIA GIVES A DISBELIEVING LAUGH)</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">RIA: Why would I do </span> <em> <span class="s2">that</span> </em> <span class="s1">?</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">LYNNE: My friend told me that’s what you do here. Tell an experience, get paid for it.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">RIA (without hesitation): Yeah, no. If I’m not getting paid for this, there’s no way in hell </span> <em> <span class="s2">you</span> </em> <span class="s1"> are.</span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">LYNNE (with a note of triumph in her usually flat tone): So you </span> <em> <span class="s2">don’t</span> </em> <span class="s1"> work here.</span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">RIA (through gritted teeth): I’m a </span> <em> <span class="s2">volunteer</span><span class="s1">.</span> </em></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">LYNNE: ...Sure. Bye.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">(SOUND OF LYNNE OPENING AND CLOSING THE DOOR ON HER WAY OUT OF THE ROOM.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS OFF]</span>
</p><hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS ON]</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MARTIN: Sorry again that the Archivist isn’t in today, um… but I should be… absolutely fine to take your statement? Is...if that’s alright with you, of course.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘SMITH’: My name is Smith.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MARTIN: Oh! Oh, okay, jumping right into it then. Do you, uh, do you mind me asking your first name?</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">‘SMITH’: Uh. John...’John Smith.’ [</span> <em> <span class="s2">Elongates vowels</span> </em> <span class="s1">] ‘John Smith.’</span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">MARTIN (with a resigned sigh): Right. Okay, statement of ‘</span> <span class="s2"><em>John Smith</em>,</span> <span class="s1">’ er, recorded 2nd of May 2017, regarding...</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Uh, what, what’s this one about?</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">‘SMITH’: I...well...I have something to report. I’m, um, worried. About a - uh - about a </span> <em> <span class="s2">friend</span> </em> <span class="s1">.</span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">MARTIN: So...what </span> <em> <span class="s2">exactly</span> </em> <span class="s1"> happened?Are you sure you don’t want to go to the police with this?</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘SMITH’: Ah, I don’t think they can help...wouldn’t believe me, anyway, what with the glowing eyes and all.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MARTIN: Oh! Oh, okay, glowing eyes, got it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘SMITH’: I think, er. I’ve heard of...your domain? Field? Found a few webpages a long time ago, figured, er, uh. Figured you’d uh, hear me out? Er, er...y’know. Glowing eyes. (with a lowered voice) Government conspiracies .</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">MARTIN: Er...okay, so uh. What </span> <span class="s2">exactly</span> <span class="s1"> happened? How exactly do the uh, glowing eyes relate to...um...’</span> <span class="s2">government conspiracies</span> <span class="s1">’?</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘SMITH’: Um, so, so you know Aldwych Tube station?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MARTIN: Heard of it, yes.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">‘SMITH’: Well, uh, y’know...you probably know it’s abandoned now. But I was with, er, an, an </span> <em> <span class="s2">associate</span> </em> <span class="s1"> - </span> <span class="s2">Joe</span> <span class="s1">...Joe...uh, Johnson. Joe Johnson.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MARTIN: Okay, and...</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">‘SMITH’: We, er, wanted to have a look around. So we, uh, we were trying to break into the tube station - again, abandoned - just about, er, </span> <span class="s2">gotten in</span> <span class="s1">, when these two guys just walked up dressed in all black. Couldn’t make out their features too well, ‘cept for, uh, er...</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MARTIN: The, uh, the eyes?</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">‘SMITH’: Yeah, eyes. </span> <em> <span class="s2">Eyes</span> </em> <span class="s1">. Glow-in-the-dark silver eyes. Set uh, </span> <span class="s2">Joe</span> <span class="s1"> and I <em>right</em> on edge.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MARTIN: I...can imagine. And uh, what happened then?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘SMITH’: They said, uh, they said stuff.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MARTIN: Right. Right, so, what exactly did they say?</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">‘SMITH’: Y’know, </span> <em> <span class="s2">stuff</span> </em> <span class="s1">. Stuff about the dark, not getting caught in it, uh...extra torches? I think?</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MARTIN: Okay...</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">‘SMITH’: It was, uh, er, it was threatening. More than it sounds. ‘Cause of the </span> <span class="s2">looking</span> <span class="s1">. They were </span> <em> <span class="s2">looking</span> </em> <span class="s1">.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MARTIN: Okay, okay, so...uh...did you and ‘Joe’ end up breaking in? For, er, whatever reason you had?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘SMITH’: Yeah, after they left.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MARTIN: They, uh, they just left? Any reason? Uh, that you could tell?</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">‘SMITH’: Just </span> <em> <span class="s2">left</span> </em> <span class="s1">.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MARTIN: Did <em>you</em> by any chance have a reason? For breaking into the station?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘SMITH’: Well… It’s… It’s part of, part of London’s history, y’know. It’s public transport, it’s interesting. Original adverts and...stuff. Interesting stuff.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">MARTIN: Got it. And then, er, what happened? Did anything happen </span> <em> <span class="s2">in</span> </em> <span class="s1"> the station?</span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">‘SMITH’: They </span> <em> <span class="s2">took</span> </em> <span class="s1"> him - er, Joe. They took Joe, when the torches went out.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MARTIN: Alright, so, who exactly is ‘them’?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[AWKWARD SILENCE. MARTIN CLEARS HIS THROAT.]</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The men with the glowing eyes? The, uh, the government?</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">‘SMITH’: </span> <em> <span class="s2">Yes</span><span class="s1">.</span> </em></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS OFF]</span>
</p><hr/><p class="p1">[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS ON]</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM (sounding tired): Right, so...tape’s on. Who are you?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">CALLIE (brightly): Callie Brooks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: Right. Okay, Callie, uh...why are you here?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">CALLIE: I was at a party and someone died.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: I (<em>sigh</em>), I uh, am sorry for your loss.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">CALLIE: Oh don’t be! That’s the thing, she came back to life!</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: (<em>heavy sigh</em>) She...came back to life?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">CALLIE: Yeah, just. Down the stairway, <em>splat</em>! Blood.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: Right. That’d be the death. And then?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">CALLIE: She just got up and kept dancing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM (muttering): Yeah. Yeah, sounds about right.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">CALLIE: You’ve heard about this before?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM (on a sharp exhale): You could say that. Were you, uh, the only one who noticed?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">CALLIE: Oh no, everyone was screaming.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">TIM: </span> <span class="s2">Right</span> <span class="s1">. Great. Lovely.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">CALLIE: It <em>definitely</em> livened up the night.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS OFF]</span>
</p><hr/><p class="p1">[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS ON]</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">RIA: Is this how taking statements </span> <span class="s2">usually</span> <span class="s1"> goes around here?</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: Oh, fuck no. This is a new level of hell.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">RIA: Fun.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">BASIRA: It’s like everyone suddenly just...</span> <em> <span class="s2">forgot</span> </em> <span class="s1"> how to tell coherent stories.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MELANIE: I really did feel bad for the spider guy I talked to. He seemed distressed, genuinely, but this place, it doesn’t...</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: It doesn’t help people. Just feeds on them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MARTIN: Yeah. Yeah, you guys are right, I just. I can’t let Jon do it by himself. The statements, I mean.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">BASIRA: I mean, he hasn’t been doing any at </span> <em> <span class="s2">all</span> </em> <span class="s1"> lately.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MELANIE: Yeah, I don’t think I can remember the last time I saw him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: Figures. He got us into this mess, and now he bows out. Leaves <em>us</em> to deal with this shitshow.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">BASIRA: Actually, I’m starting to think something might be wrong. He’s been dedicated to this job since I’ve known him - unhealthily, actually.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: Yeah, well. I thought I knew him too.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[PAUSE. NOBODY KNOWS WHAT TO SAY TO THAT.]</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MARTIN: Tim, I think...I think Basira might be right.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: ‘Course you’d say that.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MARTIN: I - fine. Fine, that’s fair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: <em>Martin</em>, I-</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MARTIN: I-It’s fine. I’m fine.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[TIM LETS OUT A SHAKY SIGH. A LONG SILENCE FOLLOWS.]</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">RIA: Sooo...uh, where were we? Spooky eyeball guy missing work too much? It being worrying?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[BASIRA SNORTS, AND MELANIE STARTS LAUGHING ONLY HALF-IRONICALLY]</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">MELANIE: We’ll have to remember that one for when he gets back - he would </span> <em> <span class="s2">hate</span> </em> <span class="s1"> being referred to as <em>“spooky eyeball guy.”</em></span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MARTIN (wistfully): Yeah...yeah, he would.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">TIM (with a sharp intake of breath): </span> <em> <span class="s2">Christ</span></em><span class="s1"><em>.</em> Yeah no, can’t do this right now. I need to go.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[SOUND OF ONE SET OF FOOTSTEPS WALKING AWAY, AND ANOTHER AS SOMEONE - PRESUMABLY RIA - RUNS TO CATCH UP. GRADUALLY, THE FOOTSTEPS FADE INTO THE DISTANCE.]</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">BASIRA (once Tim and Ria are out of earshot): Remind me, who exactly is the goth girl?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MARTIN: Tim introduced her as...uh, Ria, I think? Sorry, I...I wasn’t all here today.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">MELANIE: Yeah, it was Ria. Kind of </span> <em> <span class="s2">cute</span> </em> <span class="s1">, isn’t she?</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[BASIRA HUMS THOUGHTFULLY.]</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">BASIRA: There’s something off about her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MARTIN: I mean, Tim seems to trust her?</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">MELANIE (skeptically): </span> <em> <span class="s2">Eh...</span> </em></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">BASIRA (overlapping with Melanie): He’s <em>fond</em> of her. That’s a lot different than trust.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS OFF]</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I left Melanie and Basira’s statement sessions out because they would’ve essentially been the same as in canon (the spider guy and the guy with the dog named Jackie).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Interlude | Realization</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Institute is paid a visit.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Song Recommendation: “Some Kind of Ghoul” by Joe Zempel and Bethany Conerly</p><p>(<em>”Change for better or for worse/Move much deeper to immerse/Drape your spirit in the words”</em>)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS ON]</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">ROSIE: Hello, Oliver. Long time no see.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[SOUND OF A SMALL CHUCKLE FROM OLIVER]</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">OLIVER: It has been, hasn’t it?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">ROSIE: What brings you here?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">OLIVER: Well, the same thing that brought me here in the first place. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">ROSIE: Another statement? I don’t think the Archivist is in today. He’s been gone for a couple weeks, I believe.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">OLIVER: Time might already be running out, then...who in the Archives </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">is</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1"> available to speak to?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">ROSIE: The assistants have been taking statements in the Archivist’s stead.I’ll see if any of them are free.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS OFF]</span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS ON]</span>
</p><p class="p2">OLIVER: Uh, hello. Tim, is it? Rosie told me you were taking live statements, and I - er, I have one to make.</p><p class="p2">TIM (with a sigh): Yeah, that’s me.</p><p class="p2">OLIVER: Oliver Banks. You might know me by a different name, though.</p><p class="p2">TIM: I - have I...met you before?</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">OLIVER: No, not quite. I </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">have</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1"> given a statement here before though, under the name Antonio Blake.</span>
</p><p class="p2">[SOUND OF A SHARP INTAKE OF BREATH FROM TIM]</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">TIM: </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">Christ.</span>
  </em>
</p><p class="p2">OLIVER: Ah. You’ve seen it, then.</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">TIM: Oh, I’ve more than </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">seen</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1"> it. I looked into it, a couple years back, and now...I’m </span>
  <span class="s2">becoming</span>
  <span class="s1"> what you were then, I think.</span>
</p><p class="p2">[SOUND OF A DEEP SIGH FROM OLIVER]</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">OLIVER: The role </span>
  <span class="s2">did</span>
  <span class="s1"> pass on, then.</span>
</p><p class="p2">TIM: Yeah. Yeah, it did.</p><p class="p2">[LONG PAUSE]</p><p class="p2">TIM: How...how did you manage to change directions? To stop it?</p><p class="p2">OLIVER: There was no stopping it, only switching paths. And honestly? I don’t know if what I am now is much better.</p><p class="p2">TIM: Oh. Oh, I...I see.</p><p class="p2">OLIVER: I’m, uh, sorry I can’t give you a better answer.</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">TIM: Don’t be. I already knew I couldn’t stop it, just...(</span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">ironic laugh</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">) couldn’t keep myself from pretending to have hope for a minute, I guess.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[ANOTHER LONG PAUSE]</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tim: So, uh, what’s the...the </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">topic</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1"> of your statement?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">OLIVER: Another dream. Another Archivist in danger.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM (</span>
  <span class="s2">quietly</span>
  <span class="s1">): Martin and Basira were right, then.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">OLIVER: It’s not quite as...</span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">definitive</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1"> as my visions regarding Gertrude, given that what I see is different now. You...you know the veins, I’m assuming?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: I do.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">OLIVER: I see them still, in a sense - in red. Wreathing killers instead of those who will die. Sleep is more peaceful, but the dreamscape still shows me echoes of death - the way it presents itself to me now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: Alright. Alright, and where does Jon come into this?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">OLIVER: Last night, my dreams carried me to an abandoned wax museum. To a darkened room where someone sat bound to a chair, facing a figure in crimson and gold ringmaster’s clothing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Moving closer, I saw that the figure was made of plastic - a mannequin, with red veins that crawled along its wrists. Then, I felt the sensation of eyes at the back of my neck, and turned from my examination to see the gaze of the person in the chair focused on me. He </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">looked </span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">at me with silver eyes, and when I remembered seeing his face at the Institute once or twice while visiting Gertrude...</span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">well</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1"><em>,</em> it stood to reason he might be the Archivist.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I talked to my partner about it when I woke up - he knows too, about the fears, - and he agreed with me that it was a possibility. He said it sounded like it might have to do with the Circus of the Other.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[SOUND OF A STIFLED GASP FROM TIM]</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">OLIVER: I don’t know too much about that aspect of the Stranger, but I </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">do</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1"> know that whatever it might be planning isn’t good - and that every thread of purpose through my dreams has a reason behind it. Uh, end statement, I suppose.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM (shakily): What did he look like? The person in the chair?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">OLIVER: Uh...sharp features. Long hair, scars like yours.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: </span>
  <span class="s2"><em>Dammit</em>, </span>
  <span class="s1">Jon</span>
  <span class="s2">.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[SOUND OF A CHAIR BEING PUSHED BACK, AND OF SOMEONE GETTING TO THEIR FEET]</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: C’mon, we need to talk rescue plans somewhere else.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">OLIVER: Oh?Okay, uh, should I let my partner know?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[SOUND OF ANOTHER CHAIR BEING PUSHED BACK, AND OF OLIVER GETTING TO HIS FEET]</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">OLIVER: He’s...got a lot of experience with these things, more than me even. He’d be able to help, I think.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: If he’s willing, yeah. We’ll need all the help we can get.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS OFF]</span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS ON]</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: Basira?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">BASIRA (slightly surprised): Oh. Hey, Tim. And - uh, who are you?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">OLIVER: Oliver Banks - nice to meet you.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">BASIRA (appraisingly): Hmm. Nice to meet you; are you here...giving a statement? Visiting?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[OLIVER GIVES A SHORT, QUIET LAUGH.]</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">OLIVER: Both, in a sense.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: We can go over it more later, Basira, but right now, there’s...(</span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">sigh</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">) You were right.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">BASIRA: About what?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: About </span>
  <span class="s2">Jon</span>
  <span class="s1">. Apparently, he’s </span>
  <span class="s2">probably</span>
  <span class="s1"> been kidnapped.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">BASIRA: </span>
  <span class="s2">Oh</span>
  <span class="s1">. Wait, ‘</span>
  <span class="s2"><em>probably</em>’</span>
  <span class="s1">?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: Long story. Just...just trust me for now, please.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[SOUND OF A BOOK BEING SHUT, AND OF BASIRA GETTING TO HER FEET]</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">BASIRA: We’ll need a plan. Do you want me to get the others?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: Yeah. Please. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">BASIRA: Right. And we’re meeting...?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TIM: Somewhere more </span>
  <span class="s2">private</span>
  <span class="s1">. If Elias hasn’t </span>
  <span class="s2">done</span>
  <span class="s1"> anything about this, hasn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">told</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1"> us, then...</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">BASIRA: He might not </span>
  <span class="s2">want</span>
  <span class="s1"> Jon back at the Institute yet, and he might try and stop us. Got it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS OFF]</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Reinforcements Reunite</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The rescue team meets in the tunnels, and some startling revelations are made.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>song recommendation: "The Lamb" by Dessa</p><p>(<em>"You've got a way with words/You got away with murder/But now our roles reverse/And your table's turning now/.../But blood is blood/And what's done is done/Yeah, blood is blood/And its burden is a beast"</em>)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So, why exactly are we meeting down here?” Oliver moves to lean against the wall of the tunnel, then – after seeing just how decidedly grimy it is – seems to think better of it and steps away.</p><p>“Elias can’t see us down here.” Basira frowns thoughtfully, eyes distant even as she answers the question. If Tim had to guess, she’s probably already brainstorming solutions.</p><p>He would be doing that too, if he weren’t still so in shock. If he wasn’t still fighting to even think straight through the mess of anger and concern clouding his mind.</p><p>“He can see you anywhere else in the institute?” Oliver’s brow furrows, and he runs one hand through his braids before letting out a quiet laugh. “Actually, I quite believe that. Eye avatar?”</p><p>“The hell is an ‘avatar’?” Melanie asks, voice steeped in confusion and frustration.</p><p>“Yeah, I was about to ask that too,” Martin speaks up.</p><p>As Oliver starts to explain, Tim turns his attention to Martin, not particularly keen on trying to focus on a speech he doesn’t need to hear again. Confusion has blended with worry in his eyes, and part of Tim wants nothing more than to envelop him in a hug and promise they’ll figure this out, that Jon will be okay. Another part of him seethes at this reminder that Martin has always cared most about Jon. Even when they’d been trapped in the distortion’s hallway hellscape, with its flickering lights and peeling wallpaper (even when he had clung tightly to Tim’s hand, pressed against his side, holding on for dear life), he’d wondered aloud if Jon was alright. It felt like a betrayal then, and it stings even more now given how much the rift between he and Jon has strained his connection with Martin.</p><p>In the end, he clenches his jaw and stands his ground. No point in trying to offer comfort when he knows he’d be just as likely to lash out.</p><p>Besides, Tim doesn’t <em>know</em> if Jon’s going to be okay, and there’s no way in hell he’s going to bind himself to a promise that might be impossible to keep.</p><p>When he notices that the lilting cadence of Oliver’s voice has been replaced by the forceful, melodic tone of Melanie’s, Tim tunes back in to the conversation just in time to hear Basira offer a dry, slightly bemused, “I thought the fourteen categories were just bullshit.”</p><p>“They are,” an unfamiliar voice pipes up behind him. He turns reflexively around and finds himself looking at someone with dyed black hair, gray eyes, and eyes tattooed on either side of his jaw. <em>Gerard Keay.</em> Tim would recognize his face anywhere.</p><p>Before he can gather his words, Oliver flits past him with a softly spoken “<em>Gerry</em>” and gently pulls Gerard into a hug.</p><p>Oliver’s words about his partner echo back to Tim, the pieces starting to click into place. <em>“He’s…got a lot of experience with these things, more than me even.”</em> Gerard, from what he knows, definitely fits that description – and has a history of facing down the supernatural and coming out on top, if not uninjured. He’d also been next to impossible to contact. Last time Tim had tried, his efforts had brought him to the door of a magic shop called the Keystone, where the stormy-eyed store manager had said that <em>no, there was no “Gerard Keay” who worked there, and did Tim have an </em>appointment<em>?</em></p><p>Tim shakes his head, bringing himself back into the present moment. There’ll probably be time to ask about that encounter later – right now, he has more important things to focus on. Like rescuing Jon, and also the fact that <em>the</em> Gerard Keay is currently standing in his line of sight, glancing thoughtfully between the members of the rescue team.</p><p>Oliver leans in to whisper something unintelligible to Gerard, who responds in an equally hushed voice. Then, Oliver speaks in a tone loud enough to address the whole group: “Everyone, this is my partner, Gerry. Gerry, meet Tim, Basira, Melanie, and Martin.” He glances over to Tim with a little half-smile after the introductions are done, asking if he got everyone’s names right. Tim responds with a nod, and his reassurance is met with a sigh of relief.</p><p>“Want to do the honors?” Gerard – <em>Gerry</em> – asks with a sideways glance. “Oliver and I’ll fill in where we can.” Tim nods, turning to face everyone else.</p><p>“So, as we all know, Jon’s in danger. Basira, Martin, you have ‘I told you so’ rights there if you want to use them, but let’s save that for <em>after</em> the rescue attempt. ‘How do you know Jon’s in danger?’ you might ask. Well, technically I don’t, but Oliver here has a connection to the Eye that runs the Institute, and he had a dream about it last night.” He motions for Oliver to begin recounting the dream.</p><p>As the details of Jon’s situation are revealed through Oliver’s insights, Tim can’t help his eyes from drifting to Martin again. As he’d expected, each word sets Martin further on edge, increasing nervousness showing in the slight tremor of his hands and the tension in his shoulders even as he struggles to keep his face impassive. Again, a part of Tim aches to comfort him. Again, he stands his ground. When he hears familiar footsteps approaching from the side of the tunnel leading away from the Institute and turns to see Ria’s face emerge from the shadows, relief floods through his brain for a moment at the sight of a familiar face that doesn’t invoke such a painful cocktail of bleeding emotions.</p><p>The relief abruptly gives way to confusion and concern when Ria gasps, hands flying up to her mouth as her face goes ashen. Tim runs to her as quickly as possible, noticing as he gets closer that her eyes have gone bloodred. When he reaches her, she promptly grabs his arm, her nails digging in tightly enough to hurt. “<em>Ria, ow</em>,” he hisses under his breath, because <em>what the actual fuck? </em>She lets go immediately but stays close to his side, posture rigid and eyes facing straight ahead. He shifts to wrap a reassuring arm around her shoulders, and she doesn’t shrug off the gesture, but her posture – the terror pulled taut in her every motionless muscle – doesn’t change.</p><p>“What the <em>hell</em> are you doing here?” The question cuts through the air, low and harsh. The voice sounds distinctively like Gerry’s, but sharper. Crueller. Tim turns to find his features alight with incandescent rage, eyes glowing an unsettling silver in the dimly torch-lit tunnels. One of his hands is clenched into a fist, the other interlocked tightly with Oliver’s.</p><p>Oliver, for his part, has gathered his features into an almost convincing impression of neutrality. The slightest undercurrent of fear is barely visible, but distinct nonetheless, in his widened eyes and the slight downturn of his mouth. He stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Gerry, seeming to take comfort in the proximity. “Tim, how do you know her?” he asks, without taking his eyes off of Ria.</p><p>“She’s – she’s the one who explained this all to me. The Coroner role, the fears being real, why the End chose me…all of it. She told me about your statement.”</p><p>Gerry lets out a low, humourless laugh. “Of course she did. Drawing you in with the promise of help, then leading you deeper into the End, weaving her own little web all the way.”</p><p>“She’s my friend.” Tim can’t help the slightly defensive note in his voice – he doesn’t know what Gerry and Oliver have against Ria, but the worst she’s ever been to him is petulant and sometimes (okay, often) overdramatic. And he’s never once seen her as afraid as she is now, seemingly pinned in place by Gerry’s glare.</p><p>“Sure.” Another humourless laugh. “You can’t trust a word she says, Tim.”</p><p>“I never lied to you,” Ria says, her voice shaky but clear. “I was as lost as either of you on that ship. I spent <em>just</em> as much time at the bottom of the ocean.”</p><p>“You manipulated us <em>onto</em> that ship.”</p><p>“I didn’t make the decision for you! Influence can only go so far; you can’t pin this all on me! You <em>can’t</em>.” Ria’s near shouting now, her tone edging on frantic.</p><p>Gerry, on the other hand, is steady and certain in his words as his eyes continue to bore into her. “And <em>you</em> can’t look away from the blame on your shoulders. You haven’t told them anything, have you?”</p><p>Ria stays silent, save for a shuddering inbreath, and dread starts to rise in Tim’s throat. “Ria? What are they talking about?” She responds with an unintelligible murmur, and he doesn’t have the chance to ask again before Oliver’s voice rings out, cold and clinical in a way that sends a shiver up his spine.</p><p>“A web of red crisscrosses over every inch of your skin, Casualty, almost touching as it twines but never quite making contact. The blame is never yours, never technically, but it exists and it hovers nonetheless.”</p><p>Ria seems to have stopped breathing by Tim’s side. He glances at Oliver and barely holds in a gasp at the way the man’s eyes have turned even more silver than Gerry’s – the way his head tilts to the side as he describes the marks he sees on Ria, the thin smile that stretches across his face.</p><p>“A lightning bolt may have killed that man who stood in a field mid-storm, but you were the one who led him to where it would strike. A motorcyclist may have flipped over the highway barrier, but you were the one who encouraged him to drive faster. You have caused collisions by stepping into traffic, setting off a domino effect that killed increasing numbers of people as a car pileup formed. You have done damage with every footstep since the night you first died, and taken pleasure in it all the way. You didn’t cause the satellite impact, but you smiled about its impending arrival, trying all the time to convince one of the people it was destined to kill to commit murders in some kind of twisted sacrificial ritual to the End. Regardless of the damage the ocean did to your strength and resolve, the streak of destructive callousness that runs through your nature survived – and grows more powerful each day.”</p><p>Oliver’s eyes flutter closed, and when they open they are again dark and tired. Gerry presses a kiss to his cheek and whispers something into his ear. Tim can still feel Ria’s presence at his side, but she’s shrugged his arm off, and when he turns to face her she’s standing with both hands on her hips, eyes half-lidded and chin tilted up defiantly as her mouth curls into a smirk. Performative. <em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>Before he can even think of anything to say to deescalate the situation, or to at least stop her from exacerbating it, she trills, “Bravo!” and gives a little round of claps. “The Ceaseless Watcher has done you well, hasn’t it? Too bad your target audience hates your patron – do you really think he’ll believe you, either of you, monstrous as you both are? <em>Please</em>. Vessels of the terrible truth, and yet neither of you can see reality.” She tosses her ponytail and leans back against the wall of the tunnel, tossing a conspiratorial glance in Tim’s direction.</p><p>Of course, her outburst only elicits more suspicion from Gerry and Oliver. “See?” Gerry sighs, glancing at Tim with one eyebrow raised – the picture of sympathy and exasperation all at once. “This is her. This is what she’s really like, past the layers of manipulation.” His expression darkens, then, as he continues, “She only cares about what you can do for <em>her</em>, about how she can get you closer to the End.”</p><p>“I believe you called it ‘spooky death land’?” Ria quips in response, raising an eyebrow right back at Gerry.</p><p>How the <em>hell</em> is Tim supposed to deal with this?</p><p>Before he can come up with any solution, Oliver has interceded, quite literally stepping between Gerry and Ria. “Look, we don’t trust her,” he sighs with a glance around the room. His eyes land on Tim, who nods in acknowledgment. “But do you think she can help?”</p><p>He takes a breath in and out, trying to ignore the impulse he has to defend Ria – the equally strong impulse he has to give in to perceived betrayal and tell her in no uncertain terms to <em>leave</em>. The possibility that she's been using him chills him to the bone; the possibility that she hasn't been clings to his racing heartbeat. And, through the conflicting feelings building in his throat, he manages to choke, “I wouldn’t have invited her if I didn’t.” Another breath in, another breath out. “Like I said, we need all the help we can get.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Stirring Embers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Discussions about rescuing the Archivist. A divide between undead and living.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Song Recommendation: “Dirty” by grandson</p><p>
  <em>(“Is it time to speak up or time for silence?/Time for peace, or is it time for violence?/.../Go on and tell me now/Do you have enough love in your heart/To go and get your hands dirty?”)</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>CW: a LOT of discussion about/mentions of death, including expressions of homicidal thoughts (S3 Melanie-typical re: Elias)</strong>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Look, I’m just saying if we have to send someone on what might be a suicide mission, it should probably be the person who’s died <em>countless</em> times before. It makes the most sense!” Ria’s eyes are wide with disbelief as she gesticulates wildly, like she can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">believe</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1"> her intentions in volunteering to rescue the Archivist are being questioned. It even seems like she might be genuine.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Gerry, Oliver notes, is distinctly unimpressed. “We can’t trust you,” he says through gritted teeth, “and you know that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">know</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">!” Ria shouts, before slumping against the tunnel wall and crossing her arms And again, quietly this time, “</span>
  <span class="s2">I <em>know</em></span>
  <span class="s1">.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We can send someone else in with her,” Tim suggests from where he stands - slightly to the side of Ria. “Probably </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">should</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">,” he adds, a hint of bitterness creeping into his tone. A slight sigh that borders on an huff of ironic laughter. His face is almost stoic, save for the emotions clearly jumbled and brimming in his eyes. Not overflowing, just barely contained. All things considered, he’s keeping it together remarkably well.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“</span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">Tim</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1"><em>-</em>“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Later, Ria. Later.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can go,” Gerry pipes up. A wave of shock rushes through Oliver, followed by an undercurrent of fear that takes its time in creeping from his stomach into his bloodstream. Gerry gives his hand a reassuring squeeze before continuing. “Already died once, and I can </span>
  <span class="s2">See</span>
  <span class="s1"> things, learn pieces of information most people wouldn’t. Like...like tracing a pencil outline over the abstract shapes of the Stranger, making parts of it </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">known</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Words finally gathered, Oliver adds, “Well, I’m going too then.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He directs the words at Gerry, whose face and voice soften immediately as he says, “Oliver, you...you don’t have to.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Oliver turns to face Gerry more fully, takes his warm hands in his own and brushes his lips over their knuckles. Revels, as always, in the way Gerry gives a contented sigh in response. “Ger, you’re not going in there alone. I - really, this is something I want to do.” Gerry arches an eyebrow in slight disbelief, as if to say ‘why would you </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">want</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1"> to do this?’ Tugging one hand free, Oliver wraps an arm around Gerry’s waist to pull him in closer before responding to the unspoken question. “I love you. I won’t lose you to this.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Gerry twines his arms around Oliver’s neck and gently pulls him down into a kiss, short but soft. “I love you too,” he breathes, eyelashes fluttering against Oliver’s cheekbone as he presses still closer. “<em>I love you.</em>” His voice is quiet but resolute; there’s a certainty, a solidity, in its tone. There’s a sense of security in the unexpected strength of his wiry frame as his presence envelops them both in a sanctuary shielded from the world around them. Oliver doesn’t think he’ll ever stop being in awe of Gerry’s refusal to be broken, at the fire in his eyes and how he uses it to warm everything around him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “He won’t be alone, Oliver.” Ria’s voice interrupts Oliver’s train of thought, as cutting and petulant as ever but without its usual undercurrent of smugness. Keeping one arm wrapped tightly around Gerry, he turns to face her. She’s curled slightly in on herself, arms still crossed defensively as she leans against the wall of the tunnel. </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">She might actually feel guilty</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1"><em>,</em> he thinks, then dwells no more on the idea. Even if she does, it changes nothing. She burned any possible bridge between them when she gave him an ultimatum, one that didn’t even matter in the end.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hm. Well, that just gives me </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">more</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1"> reason to come with, doesn’t it?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You think I’d do something to <em>harm</em> him?” Her voice is sharper now, indignant. “</span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">Look</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">, I know you don’t trust me -“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“</span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">Can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1"> trust you,” Gerry corrects, leveling a piercing glare at her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“-but there’s no reason I’d just hurt the one person who could help me get out of there.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right. I’ll still be joining you.” It’s almost amusing, the fact that Ria thinks anything she says will sway Oliver’s decisions. He’s been past that point of vulnerability for a long time.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>
    <span class="s1">“</span>
    <span class="s2">Fine</span>
    <span class="s1">.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What - what should we do, in the meantime? While you’re rescuing Jon?” asks the archival assistant with dark, curly hair and a slight beard - Martin, if Oliver’s remembering right. He adjusts his glasses in what Oliver recognizes as a nervous tic, broad shoulders tense with anxiety.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Keep Elias busy,” responds the woman in the maroon hijab - Basira -, whose tired but keen eyes are alight with ideas. “Make sure he doesn’t See and interfere.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I still say we just try and kill him,” the woman beside her - Melanie - intones, voice ringing out with decisive, charismatic clarity. She’s wiry in the same way as Gerry, Oliver notes, but more tightly coiled. She rakes one hand through her chin-length black hair with a ferocity that borders on violence. “There’s no way it’ll kill all of us; he’s just manipulating us! Can’t ‘See’ if he’s dead, or too busy running for his life.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He can See your attempts, though,” Basira retorts. “Doesn’t seem overly concerned about them, from what I’ve heard from Jon.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Maybe we just annoy him into paying attention.” A hint of a smile plays across Tim’s face as he speaks - weighted down by exhaustion, barely visible, but still there. “Burn some statements, turn on all the bathroom faucets and flood the place, glue things down to the desks, put googly eyes everywhere -“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The-the fire sounds good, actually. I’ll do that.” Martin again, also with a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Excited to commit some light arson, are we?” Tim raises his eyebrows at Martin, who lets out a laugh somewhere between bitter and genuine before replying.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just done with this place. I’d <em>love</em> to see it go up in flames.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That makes...” Tim cocks his head slightly to the side, as if doing mental math. “Six of us, actually.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Seven,” Ria adds. “I’d </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">love</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1"> to see Rosie’s face if the Institute burned.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do you have against </span>
  <span class="s2">Rosie</span>
  <span class="s1">?” Martin splutters. “She’s really sweet!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Gerry mutters, “That’s probably </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">why</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">,” under his breath, wryly enough that Oliver has to suppress a laugh.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At the same time, Ria defends herself with an indignant, “No! She’s just a </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">spider</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“O-</span>
  <span class="s2">okay</span>
  <span class="s1">?” Martin looks even <em>more</em> confused now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Web-aligned.” Gerry shrugs “Makes sense, actually. My eyes always skip right over her.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“See? If you don’t trust me, trust </span>
  <span class="s2"><em>him</em>.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Martin. Ria,” Tim sighs. “Think we’re getting a bit off topic here.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right. So we burn statements.” Basira, firm and decisive.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’d rather set fire to his office, </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">while</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1"> he’s inside.” Melanie, burning with justified but destructive anger.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah. Me too. But we can’t.” Tim, exhausted.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">lying</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1"> to you! To all of us!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I won’t take that risk. I </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">won’t</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah.” Gerry nods, airy in his delivery but decisive in his opinion. “I agree with you there.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I - I don’t know if it would fit for Basira to be burning statements with us? Uh, I can - I can pass it off as a cry for attention, I think. Tim, Melanie, you - ...he knows you both have your reasons.” Martin looks nervous about the suggestion, though it seems reasonable. Oliver understands; he’s certainly been there before.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He’s right. I’ll just...read a book. Pretend not to care. The usual.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I could bring a boombox. Blast music while we’re doing it. Y’know, amp up the annoyance factor to its highest - might as well.” Tim gives a toothy grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, seeming to try for a dark sort of levity.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah. Yeah, except...we </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">have</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1"> to kill him. Annoying him just...just means he can make you <em>know</em> things, about the past. About <em>your</em> past. Awful things.” Melanie’s eyes are as haunted as they are angry, now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Melanie, we can’t. I won’t take that risk either.” If he’d sounded nervous before, Martin sounds absolutely certain now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fine. </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">Fine.</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">” Melanie pushes her hair back behind her ears with a deep breath and relents. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’ll be keeping my head down, don’t need any more trauma shoved in there.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“J-just us, then?” Martin glances over at Tim with a slight hesitation.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Something like warmth flickers across Tim’s face, and he moves a couple steps towards the other man before stopping. Then flicker fades to embers, resignation. “Yeah. Yeah, just us.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Preparations of the Undead</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A web of uneasy alliances forms.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Song Recommendation: “Easily”<br/>by the Red Hot Chili Peppers</p><p> </p><p>  <em>(“The story of a woman on the morning of a war/Remind me, if you will, exactly what we're fighting for/Calling and calling for something in the air/Calling and calling, I know you must be there/Easily, let's get caught in a wave/Easily, we won't get caught in a cage”)</em></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Three undead souls share a dimly lit portion of the tunnels, their conversation more argument than plan.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Absolutely </span> <em> <span class="s2">not</span></em><span class="s1">,” Ria snarls, pacing back and forth. The heavy footfalls of her combat boots echo, bouncing off the walls around her. Despite her outward display of willfulness, Oliver catches glimpses of something not unlike fear in her eyes. He might not know Ria all that well, but she’s never seemed like the type to throw up a shield of anger in a fight she thinks she’s winning.</span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">From beside him, Gerry lets out a laugh - low, ironic, dangerous. “It’s cute that you think you have </span> <span class="s2">any</span> <span class="s1">say in our plans.” Oliver can hear the thin smile that spreads across his lips, can imagine the way it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">All the resolve in Ria’s posture collapses, like she expected that response and doesn’t have an answer to it. Arms crossed, eyes downcast, she seems almost vulnerable. If it’s an act, it’s markedly different than each outward image she’s projected in the past. Oliver’s never seen her look so utterly defeated before. And honestly, he’s not quite sure he likes it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Gerry takes in another breath, ready to continue defending the decision they’ve made - not realizing the battle’s already been won. Oliver eases an arm around him and whispers, “Ger, I think we’re good.” With that, Gerry softens the slightest bit, leaning against his shoulder.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still, he never takes his eyes off of Ria.</span>
</p><hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Annabelle Cane, Gerry thinks, is tall. Not in stature, but in some other way. In power, maybe. Influence. Oliver had called her, they’d heard a phone ring from somewhere in the tunnels, and she’d popped out of the shadows as if on cue. “Perhaps a conversation better had in person?” she asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Oliver laughs, sounding genuine and nervous in equal measure. “Yes, perhaps.” Then, he glances over to meet Gerry’s eyes, face alight with a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions. “Gerry, Annabelle. Annabelle,-“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know who he is.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Oliver looks slightly alarmed by the statement. Caught between warm amusement and deep resignation, Gerry can’t find any reaction within himself but a quick, sharp bark of laughter. “‘Course you do.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Annabelle tilts her head, studying him, smirking like he’s a puzzle she’s just solved a part of. Her eyes glitter in the dim lighting, both the two original ones and the six smaller ones lined up above her eyebrows. “You get it, then.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah. I know I’ve been manipulated most of my life - it’s not exactly a secret.” He feels his mouth quirk up on one side. “Even let it happen, sometimes.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><em> <span class="s2">Sometimes it was easier that way</span></em> <span class="s1"><em>,</em> he doesn’t add. He doesn’t have to.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Gerry hates the idea of owing a debt to the Web as much as Ria does, but the way he sees it, their other option for getting into the wax museum is even <em>less</em> inviting. The Distortion’s connection to his dad’s former coworker has kept it from hurting him so far, but he doesn’t feel like testing its limits.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Letting the Web tie one more thread to his and Oliver’s lives versus potentially getting lost forever in corridors that would make them doubt their sanity. Neither option is </span> <em> <span class="s2">good</span> </em> <span class="s1">, but one’s definitely worse.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Gerry’s had enough of lies. It’s always been the truth that’s saved him, covered in cobwebs or not.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fueled by bravado and urgency, he continues the conversation. “So, how’re you getting us in?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Annabelle’s smirk spreads into a full grin, scrunching up the silken stitches that criscross up the right side of her face. “There are members of the troupe who owe me a favor. They’ll let you in, no strings attached.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“For now,” Gerry mutters.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Annabelle’s grin widens, and she reaches out a hand. “Before I go any further, do we have a deal?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah,” Gerry sighs after a moment’s hesitation, “I think we do.” He accepts the handshake first, then Oliver. Ria continues to lean against the tunnel wall and sulk, only straightening up when Annabelle moves towards her.</span>
</p><hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ria draws herself up to full height, glowering down at the spider standing before her and ignoring the fact that her heart would be pumping at breakneck speed if it still had the capacity to do so.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Annabelle just tilts her chin up, meeting bloodred eyes with a chillingly pleasant laugh. “Aren’t you going to shake my hand?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not if my life depended on it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Another laugh. “You forget: you don’t </span> <em> <span class="s2">have</span> </em> <span class="s1"> a life. Only a title, a role.”</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“You’re just a puppet”</em> isn’t something she says outright, not as blatant in its sting as Rosie’s words a few weeks back. Still, it’s implied in the glimmer of her eyes - how she seems to look down on Ria despite her petite stature.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Just take her hand, Ria.” Gerard’s voice sounds out, clipped and sharp-edged. She realizes, then, that he’s been saying her name in the same tone Tim had earlier in the day. </span> <em> <span class="s2">“Later, Ria,”</span> </em> <span class="s1"> he’d said. She highly doubts “later” will ever come.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">What has she gained from these past few months, now that the friendship she was starting to build is torn to pieces? Where has being vulnerable gotten her? The answers are nothing, and nowhere good.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ria. We don’t have much time.” Gerard again. Ria takes Annabelle’s hand, forcing her features into stony certainty. There’s only so long she can run from the Web, and she already owes it the debt of her undeath.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">If she thinks about it, pushes away the emotions that have caused her turmoil since the </span> <em> <span class="s2">Examiner</span> </em> <span class="s1"> sank, there’s no harm in one more deal. She’s already stuck in the Spider’s web - might as well make the most of it. A broken part of her starts to knit itself back together - the one that found power in being controlled.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before Ria leaves for the wax museumwith Gerard and Oliver the next day, Tim stops her in the hallway and tells her to be careful. The emotions she’s just started to bury again burst unceremoniously up from their graves. She wants to tear away every string that holds her in place. But if she did that, she doubts there would be much left of her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You alright?” Gerard asks with begrudging concern.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Regretting the handshake.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah.” He doesn’t comfort her. He doesn’t scoff either. He just nods in acknowledgment and turns his attention back to Oliver.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><em> <span class="s2">This</span></em><span class="s1">, Ria thinks - her mind somewhere between sarcasm and hope -, </span> <em> <span class="s2">might be the beginning of a beautiful truce</span> <span class="s1">.</span> </em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Assorted Perspectives, Past and Present</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>There is a coffin. There is a flame. There are eyes in the dark and the light alike.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Song Recommendation: "Punching in A Dream" by The Naked And Famous</p><p> </p><p>  <em>("All the lights go down as I crawl into the spaces/Fight, flight, or the screams/Life tearing at the seams/Wait, I don't ever want to be here/Like punching in a dream, breathing life into my nightmare")</em></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ria’s fingers ache from their whiteknuckle grip on the stair where she sat. She grits her teeth against the claustrophobic shudder that runs periodically through her body – which, of course, only serves to make the feeling worse.</p><p>(“Oh, there’s <em>no</em> way,” she had spat at the two large, unnaturally normal men who had met her, Oliver, and Gerard at a side entrance to the wax museum. She hadn’t really expected to be listened to, but she couldn’t contain her thoughts when it became clear she was being asked to hide in a coffin – no, <em>the</em> Coffin –, on the word of a spider. In order to rescue someone she’d never even met from the hellish circus he’d gotten himself tied up in.</p><p>“It’s not the real one. I can tell.” Gerard’s voice had rung out from behind her, soft but clear. She’d whirled around to see him much closer than she remembered, eyes distant as he stared past her.)</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Tim watches Jane Prentiss’ statement burn to ash with a numb satisfaction, only dropping it into the wastepaper bin beside his desk when flames start licking at his fingers. There’s a flurry of footsteps down the stairs to the Archives, and then Elias Bouchard stands in front of him with an irate look in his piercing gray eyes.</p><p>Suit rumpled, hair disheveled, he looks less polished than usual. It’s something Tim takes bitter pleasure in, but also something that sparks a twinge of apprehension in his gut. At the moment, he couldn’t say why.</p><p>(He’d squeezed Martin’s shoulder after they’d split a box of statements between the two of them, not quite ready to return to the amount of closeness hugging invited yet. Martin had leaned into his touch, looking up at him with worried eyes and a mouth set in grim determination. “He’s going to be okay. He <em>has</em> to be okay.”</p><p>Tim’s hand had fallen away. He’d felt only the slightest twinge of regret at Martin’s resulting stumble. “All we can do is what we can. We’ll all meet our ends someday.”</p><p>“Not today.”</p><p>“You can’t promise that. And neither can I.”)</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Gerry holds tightly to Oliver in the dark of the false Coffin, pressing his face into his neck and leaning hard against his shoulder. The feeling of being trapped is nothing new, but that doesn’t mean he likes it.</p><p>A flash of Sight makes him aware of the small indentations slowly forming from clenched fists dug into the stairs beside him; aware that replica or not, this coffin is still tied to the Buried; aware that it resents the bloodred claws of the End that dig into it. Without much conscious thought, he reaches out to Ria with his right hand. She meets it with her left and holds on for life she can no longer lay claim to.</p><p>He’ll never feel warm towards her, he knows, but at this point it’s important to make peace. For better or worse, they’re on the same side.</p><p>(Gerry had sat on steps beside someone filled with equal parts bravado and terror before, back when he also faced the world with cold fear masked by false confidence. Dreamlike flashes of the encounter had returned to him suddenly when Ria had protested hiding in the coffin – the defiance of a girl who preferred cigarette smoke and skull insignias to a quiet life within the walls she’d grown up trapped between.</p><p>She’d left an impression on him that never quite faded – one present in his decision to paint an eye onto his own lighter, to embrace something slightly less terrible than confinement in order to escape his childhood prison.</p><p>He had no way of knowing if Ria was the person he’d met all those years ago, but he’d still felt a flicker of recognition – a glimpse into who she might have been before the End claimed her, and before the Web tangled her in marionette strings. He’d seen echoes of defiance sputter through her long-dead veins, and defiance was a sign of hope.)</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Basira sits perched on a chair in the corner of the main area of the Archives, warily glancing up at the scene unfolding in front of her every so often. Her eyes follow the words she traces across each page with the tip of her right index finger, but the words don’t form any coherent thoughts as they fit together in her mind – too lost in the tension of the room to settle.</p><p>Her breath catches in her throat as Tim lets his fingers be singed, then drops the remains of the statement he holds without so much as a grimace of pain. His smile at Elias is performative and flat as some mocking, falsely unassuming greeting falls from his lips. Elias frowns, leaning one hand on Tim’s desk to peer down at him.</p><p>A few tense words are exchanged before Martin’s voice rings out from where he’s locked himself in Jon’s office: “Hmm. Statement ends, I suppose.”</p><p>Basira watches in slight shock as Elias’ eyes go wide, as he doubles over and slumps against the side of the office door and as he demands to know what Martin is <em>thinking</em>.</p><p>“Sorry Elias, I can’t hear you! There’s a door in the way!” Martin’s voice comes again, sarcasm seething beneath his words.</p><p>Basira has to quietly bring a hand up to her mouth to hide the slight smile that quirks across her face in spite of everything.</p><p>(She hadn’t expected Martin to show such steely resolve in his planning, but maybe she should have. He really was powerful, iron beneath the soft external appearance he projected, and she found herself respecting him as she quietly watched his plan to disorient Elias take shape. Alternating when he and Tim burned statements, staying in two separate rooms so Elias couldn’t focus in one spot, shifting the man’s sight back and forth until Jon came back.</p><p>A part of her, buried deep and screaming for recognition, had felt bitter that Martin hadn’t applied this kind of strategic plan <em>before</em> she ended up trapped in the Archives. Before Daisy was forced into becoming Elias’ personal hunter, gone for days at a time. Before everything went so terribly <em>wrong</em>.</p><p>But what was done was done. She’d pushed the bitterness down to the pit of her stomach, where it lay with years of unacknowledged guilt about her role in all the wrongs she’d allowed to be done in that “before.” A period of time she <em>knew</em> wasn’t as idyllic as she now remembered it being.</p><p>Nostalgia. What a bitch.)</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>In a dark, cramped box that moved up and down with the footsteps carrying it, Jonathan Sims clings to strangers of a different sort than those who took him from his apartment weeks ago. A wiry arm across his shoulders keeps him from falling down the seemingly endless staircase he suspects stretches in front of him. When he almost lurches forward at an abrupt stop, in spite of the person physically supporting him, one of his hands comes down hard on ice cold flesh and bone. Someone else’s hand – their long nails dig into the spaces between his knuckles as they interlace their fingers with his and hold on with a deathgrip.</p><p>He doesn’t mind. It keeps him from drifting away, from sinking into his own mind under the pressure of the moment.</p><p>(Jon had barely stifled a startled gasp when his blindfold was unceremoniously ripped off.</p><p>“<em>Ow</em>.” From his parched mouth, of its own accord. Hoarse, resigned despite its indication of pain.</p><p>“<em>Ria.</em>” Admonishing and hushed, a word spoken by someone standing in front of him who he’d never met but recognized. A familiar face he couldn’t put a name to, eye tattoos over burn scars and long, black hair framing a face with light brown eyebrows.</p><p>“I’m <em>helping</em>.” A half-growled, sulky whisper from behind him.</p><p>“We need to be careful. Remember, he isn’t like us. He hasn’t died yet.” A melodic yet methodical stream of short sentences from someone standing near the familiar stranger.</p><p>Jon hadn’t had time to process any more of the third person’s appearance once the meaning of the last sentence sunk in.</p><p>
  <em>“He hasn’t died yet.”</em>
</p><p>He hadn’t died <em>yet</em>.)</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Equilibria</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Metaphysical shifts accompany jolts of physical movement in the dark. Outstretched hands reach into a tomb (with varying degrees of success).</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Song Recommendation: “Panic Attack” by Liza Anne</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>With each step away from the place which imprisoned him, Jon feels his mind begin to clear. Distantly, he wonders about the interaction of clashing metaphysics whose existence he can no longer pretend to deny. His mind tries to fit together the intersection of dream logic and truth, the intertwining of fear with reality.</p><p>Then, with a gasp and a lurch of the coffin that contains him, he is wrenched back into his physical body and shudders at the unwelcome sensations that accompany that shift. The cramps in his wrists, the dull ache of his parched throat, the film of greasy lotion that encases him like a second skin…it’s <em>all too-much-too-sudden</em> and a familiar helpless panic overtakes him. There is no cold water to splash on his face, nowhere to move without upsetting the delicate equilibrium of bodies crammed uncomfortably into a small space, no soft blanket to wrap himself up in until the overwhelming feelings pass. So he tries with partial success to calm his breathing, shuts his eyes to the overwhelming darkness before him, fights to focus on the small comfort of the cold hand clasped in his own.</p><p>Thankfully, by the time crossing into the tunnels once again clouds Jon’s thoughts grants, the shockwaves set in motion by forced adjustment have – for the most part – subsided. The squeaking of coffin hinges makes him flinch when it crashes against his eardrums, but following fall of soft torchlight upon his eyelids offers a kind of solace. He feels the arm around his shoulders release him with a reassuring pat, hears two sets of footsteps ascending stairs, and cautiously opens his eyes. Immediately, his gaze falls upon a hand outstretched to him – it is spindly in a way which reminds him far too much of the scuttling legs of a spider, and when he looks up on an impulse he lets out an involuntary gasp at the eight eyes which look back.</p><p><em>Annabelle Cane</em>, supplies the part of Jon’s mind dedicated to memories of statements, <em>the woman with cobwebs in her skull and a talent for staying hidden</em>. <em>The living consequence of a psychology experiment gone </em>horribly<em> wrong</em>. Briefly, he wonders if she had any more choice in losing her humanity than he’s been given himself. If it hadn’t been for the cunning gleam in her eyes, he might have felt some degree of empathy for her situation; as it stands, he refuses to allow himself any feelings towards her besides suspicion. He glances at her hand with trepidation, the urge to rise from the uncomfortable wooden step he sits upon warring with revulsion at the idea of following her <em>anywhere</em>. The latter wins out, and he lacks the energy to stifle a shudder as he leans away from her (leans back into the coffin, but really, choking seems like a mercy in comparison to being puppeted and digested – better to be trapped by unfeeling dirt than malicious strands of silk).</p><p>“Yeah,” grumbles a feminine voice from beside him. “Yeah, me too.” Jon partially shifts his focus in the direction of the sound and meets a pair of bloodred eyes. The owner of the cold hand which had anchored him minutes before looks back at him, tight high ponytail disheveled and lips twisted into a grimace of disdain. The defensive cross of her arms over her chest seems to indicate reticence or defensiveness – perhaps even thinly veiled fear. Her eyes brim with emotions, but in his current state of disorientation, Jon lacks the energy to decipher them.</p><p>“…Ria? Jon?” A voice rings out behind Annabelle, clear and calm. Then, softer, “Let me handle this.”</p><p>With an arched eyebrow and a shrug in the direction of the voice, Annabelle steps back from the mouth of the coffin. The familiar stranger with inky hair and eye tattoos takes her place. And as Jon takes his hand to step into the tunnel, puzzle pieces click into place. “Gerard? Gerard Keay?”</p><p>With a nod, Gerard confirms the answer Jon already knows. Before he can fully process this information, a familiar face swims into focus in front of him – <em>Martin</em>, dark curls falling around his warm eyes, tense with worry but still steady, palms up and arms open. Jon falls into his embrace without hesitation, clinging to the soft, familiar comfort of his presence. “<em>Jon</em>,” Martin sighs into his hair, voice full of choked pain and palpable relief. And Jon, all appearances of academic pretense unceremoniously abandoned, clings tightly to the fabric of Martin’s sweater.</p><p>“Glad you’re not dead, boss.” Tim’s voice is all levity laced through with hurt as he lays his hand upon Jon’s shoulder and gives it a tentative squeeze.</p><hr/><p>It is with a partially feigned reluctance that Ria finds herself taking Gerard’s hand to step out of the coffin. As soon as she’s once again on steady ground which doesn’t seek to swallow her, she takes a breath and steadies herself, taking down and retying her high ponytail. Doing her best to ignore the eight calculating eyes she feels watching her from one side, she tips her chin upwards and walks casually towards where the Archivist is reuniting with his colleagues. She leans on the tunnel wall, crossing some arms in some pantomime of the casually flippant demeanor she used to believe was etched into her dead blood and bone.</p><p>She has no idea how to act, what to say, or where to look when Tim at last turns to face her. Apparently, neither does he, as he studies her for a long moment while she stares at the ground. It is only when she looks up to meet his gaze that she sees a flicker of <em>something</em> in his eyes. Wary relief? Recognition of the hallmarks of feeling trapped? Ria doesn’t have the time to fully examine or process whatever he’s observed before he’s closed the distance between them to envelop her in a hug. Still warm.</p><p>“Thanks for coming back. Glad you didn’t try to pull a jump-scare this time.”</p><p>“Didn’t have enough blood on me.”</p><p>There is a pause which hangs heavily in the air as Ria fights the threads which stitch her mouth shut when she tries to be honest. For just a moment, the silk snaps, and words unattached to the Web fall from her mouth. “I didn’t want you to see me as the monster I present to the world.”</p><p>“Yeah. I get it. Won’t be able to get over it yet, but I get it.” Tim’s voice is tight, Ria notices, like the words he says don’t quite align with his innermost thoughts. She doesn’t know quite what to make of it, but she’s fairly certain there’s hope to mend what’s been broken between them.</p><p><em>Thank Terminus my tears dried up long ago</em>, she thinks, and throws her arms awkwardly around her friend’s waist. As soon as her hands meet each other behind his back, she feels as if several needles have stabbed through her ulna and radius, left and right both. Her hiss of pain comes at the same time as a terrible possibility pulls itself free from the recesses of her mind: <em>My bones should be shattered, with how many times they’ve broken.</em></p><p>“The Web's silk binds my bones together,” she blurts out, wincing at how her voice almost cracks at the declaration. "And now...I think it's <em>breaking</em>."</p><p>Only silence greets her, at first. Then, Annabelle’s voice rings out, quiet and soft in the silence of the tunnel. “You did something the Mother took offense to, didn’t you?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><strong>The End, upon seeing Ria as her Casualty self for the first time</strong>: Well, this one’s going to need a lot of maintenance.  Lovely.</p><p><strong>The Web</strong>: We’ll help you with the bones if you handle the other injuries.</p><p><strong>The End</strong>: And <em>why</em> would you want to help?</p><p><strong>The Web</strong>: <strong>::::)</strong></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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